


To Find A Song

by Mildredandbobbin



Series: Awakening [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Bilbo Baggins and the One Ring, Courtship, Developing Relationship, Dragon Sickness, Explicit Sexual Content, Fili and Kili don't sorry, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Thilbo, Thorin Lives, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5122277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mildredandbobbin/pseuds/Mildredandbobbin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Bilbo by his side, Thorin is finding his way as King under the Mountain, but Dis and the party of Durin's Folk from Ered Luin return to Erebor, Thorin and Bilbo's relationship is put to the test. To make matters worse, Thorin discovers Bilbo has an unhealthy obsession with a little gold ring. He fears the gold in the Mountain is affecting Bilbo, but he's already told him to leave twice, if he asks him to leave again, he knows this time Bilbo will not return. Sequel to We Must Awake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Find A Song

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Squire, Vulgarweed and Ninezku for being amazing beta readers and Tolkien pickers. Khuzdul words from Khuzdul4u on Tumblr. Chapter titles from Slice of Heaven by Dave Dobbyn. Title from Song of the Lonely Mountain by Neil Finn.

“There we are, then,” says Bilbo to Thorin, dusting his hands off in a satisfied manner as he steps off the chair onto the hearth rug.

Thorin’s gaze moves from the two new additions gracing the mantelpiece in the bedchamber – a small acorn and a dwarven-made toy top – to Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo, who has also just deposited his one set of spare clothes and his bedroll in Thorin’s dressing room, and slung his letter opener of a sword over a bedpost. Bilbo, who has just spent a splendid day touring Erebor with Thorin, coupling with him, laughing with him and sharing in the rediscovery of Thorin’s long lost home, and who now, is apparently going to share Thorin’s bedchamber after all.

Emotion, so sharp and fierce that he doesn’t know what to do with it, floods through Thorin. He seizes Bilbo, capturing his mouth in an urgent kiss. Lifting him bodily, he manages to navigate the short distance to his bed, _their_ bed, tumbling them both upon it.

Bilbo breaks the kiss, looking up at him, flushed and grinning breathlessly. Thorin feels his own smile bloom and the ache in his chest reveals itself to be happiness.

“My _umùrad’akar_ , _ghivashel_ ,” he murmurs in wonder, his voice catching.

Bilbo’s sharp grin softens and he touches Thorin’s cheek. “You’re pleased then, I take it?”

“Very.” Heat stirs his blood and he lowers his voice as he turns his face to kiss Bilbo’s fingertips. “This is a far more convenient arrangement.”

“Oh ho, convenience is it?” Bilbo’s attempt at sounding put out is defeated by his breathless, wondering tone, and totally undermined by his questing fingers as they trace the shape of Thorin’s lips and then dip to tug at his beard and pull him back for more kissing. 

“Yes,” Thorin murmurs, mouthing down his bare chin and along his jaw to lick the shell of his ear in a way that makes Bilbo quiver and give a sharp hiss of breath. “I did not relish the thought of creeping past my own guards and begging admittance to your chamber every time I wished to kneel between your thighs. This–” he mouths at the pointed tip of Bilbo’s ear, “–is–” he nuzzles down to the crook of Bilbo’s neck, “–much more–” leaving a suctioning kiss there as his fingers tug open the neckline of Bilbo’s shirt, “–convenient.” 

“Thorin,” Bilbo groans in ragged demand, his fingers tight in Thorin’s hair, which is all the invitation Thorin needs to indeed move down his body, to kneel between Bilbo’s thighs and make good on his promise.

 

* * *

 

Dáin takes his leave the next week to return to the Iron Hills. Thorin is both sorry to see him go, and yet somehow more at ease, left at last to get on with ruling his new kingdom, such as it is. A third of Dáin’s dwarves stay behind under contract to Thorin to continue reconstruction work on Erebor. Skilled engineers and workers are scheduled to arrive within the week, to ready Dale before the snows arrive and continue work on Erebor over winter. Food wagons and supplies begin to arrive too, to fill the food stores in Dale and Erebor.

Thorin finds himself breathing easier now the treaties are signed and work can commence in earnest. Still there is much to prepare, and for every decision, the list of work waiting to be done grows ever longer.

He has had no word from Dwalin or Glóin, and he hopes they are having safe travels. He wishes for Dwalin now and then, for his trustworthy presence at his back, his quiet understanding forged by years of friendship and shared perils. Thorin relies heavily on his Company to be where he physically cannot, overseeing aspects of the reconstruction and running of Erebor, continuing the work they started while he was laid abed recovering from his nearly fatal wound.

He could not do without Balin, his wise and trusted friend, and he values Balin’s knowledge of Erebor of old and the dwarven families who make up Durin’s Folk. Glóin has left the treasury well-managed, the cataloguing of the wealth continuing apace by his chosen team, and there’s Óin in the infirmary, young Ori in the library. Bombur, with his own engineering skills manages the reconstruction project, with Dori and Bofur overseeing the design of the guild halls and workshop quarter. Nori is in charge of the market redevelopment, and even Bifur has set up shop, repairing and crafting for the workers.

Not for the first time, guilt pricks Thorin’s conscience for ever doubting any of his loyal friends - toymakers, merchants, bakers, broken warriors and all. Any qualms that his Company too may have been affected by the dragon sickness have been salved; any lust for wealth has been channelled into industry.

He is conscious of time slipping away, that by the end of spring, the first of his people from Ered Luin should arrive. _Dís_ will arrive. He wants to present Erebor to them, to her, as it was. He wants it to be habitable, comfortable, ready for his people to start their new lives. He does not want them to arrive tired and sore only to find they must begin from scratch, to have to carve a life out of ruins yet again, as they once did in Ered Luin, from ancient Belegost, as the people of Lake-town do now in Dale.

He feels a pang of self-reproach at the thought of the Men of Esgaroth, of his churlish response to a loss he should know only too well – loved ones killed, their homes destroyed by fire from the belly of Smaug the Terrible. He hopes his reparations have helped to make amends. The gold has already gone to Bard, work has already commenced on rebuilding and refortifying Dale to make it ready for winter.

He does not expect a friendship with Bard – too much has happened - but perhaps in time he might prove his worth as an ally to the Men of Dale. 

He has even less expectations for relations with the Elves of Mirkwood. As long as Thranduil keeps his word and lets the supplies through, and supports Erebor and Dale against external foes, then Thorin will call the treaty a success.

Thorin has Bilbo to thank for the treaty, and to thank now for the ease of his heart. Everywhere he turns, his Hobbit’s presence lingers – in his bed, in his rooms, at his meals, at the end of each day. He sees Bilbo as he works, in passing, with his friends during the day and his heart is gladdened and lighter for it.  At night he sleeps warm in Bilbo’s arms, pleasured by his touch, troubled thoughts soothed by his presence.

His heart still aches for the loss of his nephews, a wound so raw he cannot bear to touch upon it for long, but the sense of pointlessness that had plagued him when he first awoke in the tent near Dale is gone, replaced by, if not eagerness, then by purpose.

He dares to think that he is happy. He dares to hope.

* * *

 

“Will you read this over?” Thorin asks, putting down his pen. He glances over his shoulder at Bilbo, curled up on the armchair that has become his, wrapped in his voluminous dressing gown that is now his also.

“Of course.” He sets down his book and pads over to Thorin’s table. Thorin shifts to allow him more room, sliding the parchment towards him. All the same he presses against Thorin, bringing a pleasant comfort in his presence. “Ah, this is the letter to Thranduil.” Bilbo scans the Westron and reaches for the pen. “May I?”

Thorin nods. It is not the final copy by any means – with many lines scratched out and rewritten in the name of diplomacy.  Bilbo hums to himself thoughtfully and then adds one or two words and some punctuation.

“For someone who does such beautiful carvings, your handwriting is appalling,” he comments.

“Balin will rewrite it for me.” Thorin murmurs, watching Bilbo’s expressive face as he reads through the letter.

Bilbo tuts and scratches out a word and Thorin smirks to himself as he sees which one.

“You can’t say that,” Bilbo chides nudging Thorin with his shoulder.

“It is true,” Thorin smiles, warm all over.

“You can’t call the Elvenking recalcitrant either,” Bilbo says. “Not even in a nice way.” His pen pauses at a part Thorin had crossed out. “It is better than canting though, I’ll give you that.”

Thorin lets his thigh rest against Bilbo’s. “Which is also true.”

Bilbo gives a short bark of laughter as he spies what Thorin had crossed out next. “I’m glad you realise you certainly cannot say _that_. Is that even physically possible?”

Thorin gives a sharp grin, pleased that the insult he’d never intended to send has amused Bilbo.

“Honestly,” Bilbo murmurs to himself. There’s silence for a few minutes as he reads before stopping to add in a line. “It won’t hurt to remind him of his part of the agreement,” he says, then adds a comma and hands Thorin back the pen. “There,” he says as he returns to his armchair. “You won’t break any treaties if you send it now.”

Thorin skims over the changes and additions, warmed that Bilbo has actually strengthened some of the language he’d used. “Perhaps I should get you to write all my diplomatic letters, my Halfling,” he says, only half teasing. “You have a skill for it.”

Bilbo glances up from his book again with a sudden smile. “Well, I’m always happy to help.”

A spark pops in the fireplace. Thorin puts down his pen and stretches. That is enough for one day. He’ll worry about the letter to Dale tomorrow.  

“Pipe?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin nods and, still stretching out the kinks from a day spent sitting at a desk, goes to the fireplace and plucks pipe and weed from the mantelpiece. He packs the pipe and lights it, taking a couple of good sucks as he takes a seat in the chair opposite Bilbo. He hands the pipe over to Bilbo who tucks it jauntily in the corner of his mouth and returns to his book.

“Just let me finish this paragraph,” he says.

Thorin does not mind, being at his leisure to simply admire his Hobbit is not a luxury Thorin takes for granted. He watches the way Bilbo’s nose twitches with his thoughts, his mobile, expressive face frowns and straightens, moving with each singular thought that flits through that quick, clever mind.

“What’s this word?” Bilbo asks, and Thorin obediently leans forward to look at the place he’s pointing to in the ancient Khuzdul text. Thorin tells him and translates, settling back in his seat.

“Huh.” Bilbo’s face clears as the sentence makes sense to him. It is marvellous, the way Bilbo has picked up their secret language and Thorin glows with pride and admiration. Nearly two hundred years later and he still remembers _years_ of interminable Khuzdul lessons at the hands of his tutors, struggling to grasp the complex syntax and language structure. 

“Oh so… you believe that these kings were literally Durin, not just a hereditary name passed down among the Longbeards?” Bilbo looks up.

Thorin has never thought about it. If Mahal chose to send his beloved Durin back to guide his children so many times, then who is Thorin to question it? “Indeed, Durin the Deathless. It has been foretold that he will come to us seven times. Mahal has sent him to lead us six times and legend tells us to wait upon his seventh rebirth.”

“You really do believe in souls then,” Bilbo notes, closing the book and taking a long draw on the pipe.  He blows a smoke ring and hands the pipe back to Thorin. “Perhaps you’re the next Durin.”

Thorin does not mind the hint of teasing. He puffs on the pipe. “No, I’m not.”

Bilbo’s eyes gleam with amusement.  “But how do you know? Should I be worried that I’m in love with an ancient figure of legend?” He is certainly teasing now, but the mention of his love takes away any sting. He does that, Thorin’s _umùrad’akar_ , drops little reminders of his affection into the most unlikely moments, even if he does not say so directly very often. 

“I _know_ ,” he says in a quelling tone which does nothing to suppress Bilbo’s amusement, as it was not meant to. He does know, his hidden name, the one carved on his heart by Mahal himself and written into the darkest corners of his mind, is not that of the great Durin, but he does not wish to explain this now. It is not the moment.

Thorin has already told Bilbo his hidden name, his sacred secret name. Under the Mountain, under the azure canopy of glow worm stars, as Thorin reached his completion, buried deep within the body of his _umùrad’akar_ , in the ancient tongue of his people Thorin had gasped out this secret word. Afterwards, blood cooled, hands fussing with practicalities, it hadn’t seemed the time to explain the words he’d spoken, to tell Bilbo how meaningful it had all been. Now he is waiting for the right moment, so the weight of the words have the gravity they deserve, that _Bilbo_ deserves when this honour is bestowed upon him in his full understanding.

He holds Bilbo’s gaze, feigning a severity he does not feel in the slightest, and hands back the pipe.

Bilbo, of course, is not cowed. He sniffs, nose twitching. “Well, I am glad to hear it. The fact that you’re already nudging two hundred has taken a lot of getting used to, I’m not sure I could cope with a millennium.”

“Hush.” In truth Thorin does not like to think of age, for hobbits live such very short lives. It hurts his heart to think that if Bilbo had been born in the same year he had been, his life would have ended nearly a hundred years ago. He draws one last time on the pipe and hands it to Bilbo as he stands. “Come to bed.”

Bilbo finishes the pipe contemplatively, then taps it out into the hearth, makes a show of fussing about before finally straightening and, grinning at Thorin, cocks his head towards the bedchamber.

The fire in the bedroom is lower and Thorin stokes it, adding more wood. The heating system still isn’t working properly, repairs still need to be done to the infrastructure and more coal must be dug out of the mountain to fuel the great furnaces in the belly of Erebor. Bilbo turns down the covers and sheds his dressing gown, sliding quickly into bed and making small, shivery noises about the cold. Satisfied that the fire will keep ‘til morning, Thorin removes his cloak and outer clothes, stripping down to his long underwear.

This is one of his new favourite pleasures in life, slipping into bed into the embrace of his Hobbit, snug and warm under the bed furs. Bilbo settles back against him with a contented sigh. The fact that Bilbo wears nothing under his nightgown is an even greater pleasure, and Thorin’s hands are fond of sliding under the thin cotton up and up to explore soft bare skin. And there is no greater pleasure imaginable than nuzzling Bilbo’s ear and rousing him with soft caresses, his own prick nestled snugly in the cleft of Bilbo’s behind.

Bilbo is rather orally fixated and, denied certain other oral pleasures, he resorts to sucking on Thorin’s fingers as they rock against each other in a steady, comfortable coupling. His small hand reaches back between them and cups Thorin’s bollocks, pressing them firmly up against his body and Thorin’s strokes quicken. His blood is stirred but he does not bother with his own completion. Well sated these days, he is satisfied this night to bring his Hobbit to climax and to fall asleep with the pleasant ache of arousal, nose nuzzled in soft curls and held fast in Bilbo’s embrace. 

 

* * *

 

Bilbo wakes, cold nose warning him that outside the furnace of Ereborian king, the room is chilly. The rattle of a dust pan alerts him that one of the dwarven servants has come to stoke the fire. He has long since grown accustomed to this intrusion and refuses to be embarrassed to be snug in the king’s bed, wrapped in said king’s arms. Soon enough the scent of breakfast intrudes upon his senses and his stomach growls.

There’s a discreet click of the door to the royal chambers as the servants depart. The sound rouses Thorin who groans against Bilbo’s ear and gives a lazy roll of his hips, reminding Bilbo of unfinished business. Bilbo hums in approval, turning in Thorin’s arms to face him.

Thorin is delicious in his pliancy. He nuzzles against Bilbo’s throat and ear, beard teasing, his sleep-warmed body pressed heavily against Bilbo’s. Bilbo finds his mouth, kissing away morning sourness as he reaches between them and caresses the hot hardness he finds there, heavy in his hand. Thorin breaks the kiss, ducking his head in the pretense of nuzzling at Bilbo’s throat. This shyness alone quickens Bilbo’s pulse.

“I would have you inside me, this morning,” Thorin says against his skin, a low harsh rasp, as if he’s forcing the words past his lips.

Bilbo kisses him, and his hands fall to Thorin’s long underwear, unbuttoning the front with haste, stripping the well-worn flannel from his upper body and down, a tangle of fabric for a moment before he has bare, warm dwarf between his thighs, pressed against his skin. Someone has to reach out of the bedclothes and fetch the oil from the stone niche above the bed and Bilbo supposes, in fairness, it should be him. He does so quickly, huddling back into Thorin’s warmth, the covers cocooned about them. He slicks himself well, teases Thorin with oily fingers, and then with an impatient huff Thorin pushes him onto his back and settles above him, straddling him, holding him stiff and steady before easing himself down.

Bilbo shudders with the delicious pleasure of sinking into Thorin’s tight heat. Oh, and to feel his massive body quiver as he sinks down with painstaking slowness, taking every last inch of Bilbo. Thorin gives a deep satisfied groan when Bilbo slips the final inch easily. He stills – staring down at Bilbo, dark of eye, lips parted, breath heavy.

“That’s it, there you are.” Bilbo runs his hands up and down Thorin’s straining forearms and bursts into a grin, just to see Thorin’s caught expression bloom into a smile in return.

Thorin exhales and then begins to move, a slow, steady rise and fall. Ah, and Bilbo could do this all day, happily, to have Thorin on his prick, able to gaze upon him, beautiful in his pleasure, those sharp, sky-blue eyes of his, locked on Bilbo’s.

“I like having you inside me, _ghivashel_ ,” Thorin murmurs, leaning over Bilbo, his dark hair a curtain about them. The blankets have fallen away but Bilbo no longer cares about the cold, caught as he is in such delicious heat.

“You feel so very good, Thorin,” Bilbo tells him, his hands dropping to run over Thorin’s straining thighs.

Thorin takes a kiss, a soft tender graze of lips, and rolls his hips a little. Bilbo trembles and he can hold back no longer, hips bucking up to meet Thorin.

Thorin groans and responds with an eagerness that heats Bilbo’s blood with a tang he can feel in his teeth. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Thorin rasps out as Bilbo thrusts into him. “Like that, Bilbo, I want to feel you today. I want to be reminded of you every time I shift in my chair, every time I rise.”

Bilbo stifles a moan. Does the ridiculous dwarf know what that kind of talk does to him? He’ll be finished before he’s started, if Thorin’s not careful. He gives a hard snap of his hips. “Will you, Thorin? Will you think of me? Think of me having you?”

Thorin leans down and seizes his mouth, his kiss hard and biting.

“Always,” he replies, dark and low, when it ends, and Bilbo leans up to take his mouth again, clutching him close. They move together, a steady, rocking rut, all sweat, wet mouths and heavy breaths, until finally Thorin throws his head back with a gasp and starts riding Bilbo in earnest, thrusting back onto him hard, his heavy prick rubbing against Bilbo’s belly. Bilbo loves this best of all, to see Thorin’s face transformed by pleasure, lost, alight, his eyes falling closed, mouth open, heavy of breath and body shaking with the quest for his completion. That he finds it so readily with Bilbo is a wonder indeed, one of which Bilbo will never tire.

Bilbo reaches for him, rubbing the slick head of his prick. Thorin’s groan is choked, and he spills, body clenching around Bilbo, tight and rhythmic, until Bilbo cannot hold on any longer. He falls as well, jerking his pleasure into Thorin’s strong body with broken gasps, Thorin’s brow pressed to his, his large hand cupping Bilbo’s face.

Thorin brushes a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead and lifts off with a grunt, shifting to lie beside him. “My Bilbo,” he sighs and kisses his shoulder.

Bilbo flings an arm over his eyes, spent. He feels completely boneless. “Oh, that was very nice, Thorin, very nice indeed.” He gives a breathless laugh. “You may greet the morning with me every day in that manner.”

Thorin gives a sated grunt. “I would, save for the fact that I would miss the taste of your prick too much, and the pleasure of your artful mouth upon me.”

Bilbo thrills a little at such bold talk from Thorin. “Mm, both very good options indeed,” he agrees and drops his arm to glance at Thorin. He looks well indeed, flushed and spent from their exertions. “Although,” he adds.“If any morning you decide you’d like to lick me open and bugger me senseless then I would not take it amiss either.”

Thorin gives a hearty groan and tugs Bilbo closer, burying his face in his shoulder. “You should not give me such ideas, _ghivashel_ , I will be thinking on it all day.”

Bilbo chuckles and would happily slide back into sleep, but his belly is starting to suggest rather strongly that other appetites are in need of satisfaction, so he gives Thorin one last kiss and reluctantly rolls out of bed.

There is the deep sigh of a mountain heaving and then Thorin rises as well, stretching, all magnificence and, hungry or no, Bilbo cannot help pausing at the door for a moment to admire him.

* * *

 

Thorin had looked so relaxed and so much himself again after their short holiday exploring Erebor that Bilbo had determined then and there to make sure he didn’t get overworked again. It is easy enough to encourage him not to work too late, since he’s loath to let Bilbo warm their shared bed alone for too long, and Thorin is more than willing to join Bilbo for lunch and take a break from his toils for a walk about the Mountain.

It takes a little while for Bilbo to grow used to this new situation with Thorin. Many a morning he wakes up with a small thrill as he remembers that, yes, he and Thorin are together now, and indeed, it is Thorin who is crushing him half to death and snoring in his ear, deliciously warm and often naked. For a while too, a small part of him waits for Thorin to change his mind again. Maybe Thorin worries about the same thing, because the smile that blooms upon his face whenever he sees Bilbo is always so _pleased_ , as if he can’t quite believe his good fortune.

Bilbo, as he catches sight of his tall, handsome, terribly regal dwarf, can’t quite believe his luck either.

Thorin is on site, talking to one of the Iron Hills engineers, a plan spread open on a pile of newly delivered beech-wood logs. Bilbo comes to stand by his side, waiting for him to finish so he can drag him off for lunch. Thorin glances up and beams as he sees Bilbo but then returns to his conversation, brow furrowed. 

Bilbo soon catches the basics of the current discussion, the plans for the water system. Most of the damaged oaken beams are to be replaced by the new beams that have just been delivered. Bilbo blinks.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says hesitantly.

“I’m sorry Bilbo, I won’t be much longer—“

“No, not that – do you mean _these_ beams?” he asks, pointing to the hewn beech logs they are next to.

“Yes, why?”

“This is beech. Not oak.”

Thorin frowns, the engineer frowns.

“It’s an easy mistake to make,” Bilbo hurries to explain. “The two types of wood are similar in colour and equally as hard at the outset. It’s just that, oak works well under water, really well, because it doesn’t actually rot, it just becomes harder and denser – that’s why your shield was so strong – but beech...doesn’t. It’s completely the opposite. If you use these beams in your water system, they’ll fall apart within the year.”

Thorin’s frown creases more deeply as he looks from Bilbo, to the plans, to the pile of beech. Bilbo’s stomach drops as he realises that perhaps he’s overstepped. It’s one thing to listen to Thorin in the privacy of their rooms and offer a few humble suggestions, it’s another to point out a flaw in front of another dwarf.  

The engineer bends to examine the wood more closely. She rubs her sparsely bearded chin.

“Well bugger me,” she says with a whistle through her teeth. “Well spotted, Mr. Baggins.”

Thorin straightens. “Tell Bombur to see me after lunch.”

“Right you are, your Majesty.” The engineer shakes her head. “Wouldn’t put it past those honourless _varudhghalut mahzâyungâlh_ – ‘scuse my language Mr. Baggins –  to have given us beech on purpose.”

Thorin frowns. “Sabotage?”

“More like swindling, I’d think,” Bilbo puts in before he can think better of it. “Beech is cheaper. I suppose it’s because it’s easier to find and easier to cut. So if you paid for oak but they gave you beech...” he offers, but then adds hurriedly as Thorin’s expression darkens. “But we don’t know yet, it might be an honest mistake. Perhaps the merchant couldn’t tell the difference either, and the woodcutters thought they could fob him off with a load of beech. Not that it makes it any better…”

The engineer scratches her head. “Well, it’s a bloody nuisance, I’ll tell you that much for naught, but it could’ve been worse, your Majesty, if your better half here hadn’t noticed.” She nods, rolling up the plan.

“Meet me in my chambers with Bombur after lunch, we’ll deal with this then,” Thorin says shortly.

“As you wish,” the engineer says with a small tug of her forelock before she hurries off, cursing colourfully under her breath.

Thorin exhales.

“Sorry, I should have told you privately–“ Bilbo begins.

Thorin turns to him then and his expression is one of deep satisfaction, and Bilbo realises where he’s seen it before, in the Elven dungeons when Bilbo rescued the dwarves. He shakes his head. “I value your counsel, Bilbo. You can be of no service to me by keeping your peace.”

Bilbo clears his throat. “Well,” he says, not puffing out his chest at all, thank you very much. “As long as you tell me if I’m poking my nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

Thorin’s gaze softens and he puts his hand on Bilbo’s elbow, leading him from the pile of beech. “You are my _umùrad’akar_ ,” he says quietly, as they start to walk across the construction site that is the entrance to Erebor. “Anything that concerns me, is your business.”

Bilbo looks up in surprise at the bald statement. He hardly thinks it unreasonable that Thorin has private thoughts, plans, duties or official business that are no one’s business but his own. “Oh.”

Thorin stops, raising his eyebrows. “You disagree? Do hobbit couples not share all things with each other?”

Bilbo flushes. “Oh they do, I suppose, to an extent, but I think even the happiest marriages I know of must have some secrets, in fact, I think in many cases that’s exactly why the marriages are so happy.”

For a single moment Thorin’s gaze is one of pleased surprise but then his expression abruptly changes and he looks away. “Come, you must be ready for your lunch,” he says shortly, dropping his hand from Bilbo’s arm as they start towards the stairs that lead to Thorin’s chambers.

Bilbo cannot shake the feeling that he’s offended Thorin. He turns their conversation over and over in the silence between them, a silence that doesn’t seem companionable, but rather a touch hurt and confused. Thorin is probably only worrying over the incident with the beech wood, but still…

Surely Thorin doesn’t suspect he’s keeping secrets from him – he hasn’t even got any—

Bilbo’s fingers slip to the pocket on his waistcoat. Well apart from that, but that hardly counts, it’s… that’s different. It’s not so much a secret but just… private. His mind shies back and carefully tucks the thought of the ring somewhere safe. But he doesn’t have any secrets, _regarding Thorin_ , he amends. He… Oh. But he did once. Not so long ago.

Oh, _that_.

Guilt and concern rise in Bilbo’s throat at the memory of the Arkenstone, of hiding it from Thorin, of creeping off in the dead of night to give it to his sworn enemies.

That.

Thorin is still silent. Words stick in Bilbo’s throat. He turns them over in his mind, worrying at them, feeling a bit sick.

They reach Thorin’s chambers, and lunch is on the table, but Bilbo doesn’t feel hungry. Thorin takes off his crown and rubs his temples. He sighs deeply and turns to Bilbo, not meeting his eyes, but he does take Bilbo’s hand, rubbing his thumb against Bilbo’s palm.

“It is not an insurmountable difference,” he says gruffly. “If you feel you must keep your own counsel on certain matters then I will not insist you share them with me.”

Bilbo’s throat feels even tighter and his heart hurts just a bit.

“Oh…No, no, _no_ , Thorin. I don’t want to keep secrets from you,” he exclaims. “ _Never_ again. I know I did, and I’m sorry for it—“

Thorin’s gaze shoots up to meet his, realisation dawning. “No! _Ghivashel_ , I know you had good reason to keep my grandfather’s stone hidden from me. That is why… that is why I do not demand this of you.” He lifts his other hand and cups Bilbo’s cheek. “I trust you, _amrâlimê_.”

Bilbo feels humbled and thoroughly unworthy. “I wasn’t even thinking of big secrets,” he says, aiming for levity and probably missing the mark. “I meant things like not mentioning that you don’t actually like your beloved’s tomato chutney, but because they served it to you on your first supper together, it’s there on the table every anniversary and it’s gone on too long to say something, so you just scrape a little on your bread and suffer through it—“

His rambling grinds to a halt, because Thorin’s expression has changed from shamed and chagrined to a ridiculous fondness.

“Bilbo,” he says, deep and low.

Bilbo clears his throat, wrinkling his nose and squeezing Thorin’s hand. “Well, that’s what I meant at any rate. I don’t want to keep secrets from you, and if there’s anything you ever want to know, I want you to ask me. Promise me, Thorin--”

By this time, however, Thorin has pulled Bilbo close and has pressed his forehead to his. His fingers toy with the small courting bead in Bilbo’s hair.

“I will,” Thorin says gravely. “And if any of my ways displease you, do not suffer through them for the rest of our days in order to spare me my feelings.”

Bilbo rubs his nose against Thorin’s. “Oh… I think I already elbow you in the ribs when you start snoring, don’t I?”

Thorin draws back, amusement crinkling his eyes. “I do not snore. Is that what that was about? I thought you needed more room.”

Bilbo grins. “No, just cotton to plug my ears perhaps.”

Thorin gives him a reproving look. “Then continue to elbow me, not that I admit to snoring.”

“It’s very majestic snoring.”

Thorin exhales mightily, as if he is rather put upon and suffers muchly, and then leans in, so his lips graze Bilbo’s ear. “Oaken beams and luncheon can wait, do you not agree?”

A shiver of anticipation runs from Bilbo’s ear to his groin. He rubs his cheek against Thorin’s, and laces his fingers through his. “Oh, I agree.”

 

* * *

Thorin is propped up on one elbow, half atop Bilbo, hips locked in the soft vee of Bilbo’s thighs, skin to skin. Bilbo is ruddy and glowing, his gaze soft and sated. Their shared emissions are mixed between their bellies, their mingled sweat cooling on their bodies. Their passion has been all the sweeter for their near quarrel earlier, a difference of opinion, shared and resolved, leaving them closer still. Thorin does not wish to stop touching, and Bilbo’s fingers continue to trace over Thorin’s shoulders, following the lines of the markings on his skin, ink or otherwise.

Thorin cards his fingers through Bilbo’s curls, his thumb grazing over the shell of Bilbo’s ear.

Bilbo’s nostrils flare and his eyes flutter nearly closed. Thorin traces the delicate curve of Bilbo’s ear again and relishes the shiver that ripples through his beloved’s body, the way his spent prick manages a small half-hearted twitch against Thorin’s belly, even now.

The sensitivity of Bilbo’s ears is a wonder and of late Thorin has found himself spending much time upon an exploration of them.

Bilbo’s fingers creep upwards and touch Thorin’s ear in return. It feels nice, the ghost of Bilbo’s fingertips tracing about the shell of his ear. His ears are nowhere near as sensitive as Bilbo’s, but when Bilbo pays them attention, licks along their curves, or breathes warmly against them, Thorin has often found himself quivering.

Bilbo’s fingers slip to toy with the metal cuff Thorin habitually wears upon his ear. His eyes narrow in curiosity as he studies it and this gives Thorin an idea.

He has complied with Bilbo’s request that he would court his hobbit in the manner of the Shire folk, but that does not mean he cannot give tokens of his affection.

He rolls onto his back, dislodging Bilbo’s fingers, and unfastens the cuff. He was given it as a coming of age present, a gift from his grandmother, given in exile. It is a worthy present for his _umùrad’akar_. He turns back towards Bilbo, considering his words for a moment, turning the ornament in his fingers.

“Dwarves do not keep flowers behind their ears, but perhaps this will suffice. Will you wear this small token of my affection?” Finally he lifts his eyes to meet Bilbo’s.

Bilbo is watching him, eyes dark and unreadable. 

“I would be honoured, Thorin,” he says simply.

Solemnly, Thorin slips the cuff onto the curve of Bilbo’s ear and clips it closed. The metal gleams against Bilbo’s coppery curls.

“It looks well on you,” he murmurs and brushes his fingers over the intricately etched metal.

“Oh…” Bilbo’s hitch of breath startles him, and when Thorin realises the cause, he cannot help himself; he flicks the cuff again. Bilbo groans and his hips twitch against Thorin’s belly, his fingers tighten on Thorin’s shoulders, eyes fluttering closed, lips pressing together. Tempted beyond endurance, Thorin leans forward and _licks._ Bilbo shakes against him, and his hands move restlessly upon Thorin’s shoulders.

“Thorin…” Bilbo breathes.

Thorin licks again from the sheer pleasure of hearing his name fall breathlessly from Bilbo’s lips.  He mouths at the cuff, and Bilbo clutches at him.

“That gift is positively indecent,” Bilbo remonstrates in a strangled voice.

Thorin gives one last lick, and shifts back to smile smugly at his flushed, quivering hobbit. “Only in private, only here, only between us,” he says firmly. “In public it is a prized heirloom given as a token of my love and fidelity.”

Bilbo gazes at him for a moment and then gives into a groan of laughter. “How can I possibly compete with a present like that? My courting gifts are going to look very poor in comparison to your ‘small tokens’.”

Thorin feels very fond. “It is not a competition. What you give to me; your love, your friendship, your quick mind, your brave heart… your touch… are more precious than any trinket.”

Bilbo smiles helplessly. “A trinket that’s probably worth my entire house in Bag End, but never mind that.” He tugs Thorin close enough to kiss, and kiss he does, before burying his face in Thorin’s bare shoulder. He sighs into his embrace and Thorin’s heart swells. “I do, I do give those things to you, and willingly -- my love and friendship, this, it’s yours, you know it is -- for as long as you’ll have it.”

Thorin will have it, and gladly, for as long as he may, but at the thought that one day he will not, his heart is seized by strong emotion, fierce and painful -- so sharp and possessive that it frightens him.

He freezes, heart pounding, dread washing through his limbs. Bilbo is still caught in his arms. Thorin daren’t fling himself away, daren’t clutch Bilbo closer. He’d nearly lost Bilbo once because of his sickness, but also nearly lost him again because of his fears. Yet what he'd just felt had been so close, _too close_ to the hoarding, grasping needfulness of his sickness.  

Bilbo’s breath is warm against his neck. Thorin can feel his pulse, a small flutter.  His hand rubs tentatively against Thorin’s shoulder.

“Thorin? What is it?”

Ah, and a taste of his own medicine. He wants to hide his shameful, troublesome fears, does not wish to bare them to Bilbo and force him to soothe them yet again.

He draws back and meets Bilbo’s gaze, tinged with concern.

“Sometimes I feel so much for you _amrâlimê_ , it overwhelms me,” he confesses, a half-truth. He knows, anyway, what Bilbo will say, that there’s no dragon sickness in this emotion.

Bilbo’s lips part, expression clearing. “I do too, for you, I—it’s ridiculous how much. Oh—“ And he leans forward and finds Thorin’s mouth. His grip is tight and demanding, and his kiss is sharp, and Thorin thinks with wonder that maybe Bilbo also feels this overwhelming twisting need within his breast.

They sigh against each other, both still holding tight for a long moment. Now, Thorin thinks, he could tell him about his hidden name now. Another secret, he realises.

No, not now, not tucked alongside the gift of the ear cuff, as an afterthought and aside.

He thinks perhaps one night, on the battlements, under the icy glow of the stars—

There’s a polite tap on their bedroom door. “Your Majesty? Lord Bombur and Engineer Johild are here to see you.”

Thorin groans. Bilbo sighs.

“I will be there shortly!” Thorin calls back and then drops his head back to Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo’s small hand pats him soothingly on the back.

“Come on, you’d best have a quick wash before you go out there.”

Thorin raises his head to look at his Hobbit. “You are joining us too, are you not?”

Bilbo blinks and his expression softens in the way it does when Thorin pleases him in some manner. “Oh. Yes, if you’d like me there.”

“I would,” Thorin tells him, and then pulls him up with him from the bed.

* * *

 

Bombur and the engineer, Johild, Bilbo remembers, are both deep in conversation, arms crossed, shaking their heads and tutting when Bilbo emerges from the bedchamber. He tries not to be embarrassed at how obvious it is what they were just up to, particularly as their lunch remains on the table, uneaten. 

“Thorin won’t be a moment,” he tells them.

Bombur beams and winks. “Nothing like a bit of afternoon delight, eh?” he says jovially.

Bilbo isn’t sure where to look and makes a noncommittal sound, certain his ears are ablaze. And oh heavens, he’s got that ear cuff on, and he can feel it tug on his ear every time he moves.

“Ah, reminds me of the early days with my mister,” Johild says, pulling on her right sideburn. “Always running off, any chance we got. I’m lucky to get a lick up the legs once a fortnight now.”

“Younglings will do that,” Bombur says sagely. “I’ve got twelve of the wee blighters. Never a moment’s privacy.”

“Twelve? Sweet Mahal,” Johild whistles through her teeth. “They know though, don’t they? I swear my two will be sound asleep, but the moment Alfar gets a twinkle in his eye, the youngest is up with a bad dream. It’s got so that–”

Thankfully Thorin chooses that moment to emerge, so Bilbo is spared further knowledge of the engineer’s intimate life.

“Bombur, Johild,” he nods in greeting and the two other dwarves are immediately down to business.

Bombur hands him a slip of paper. “There’s the requisition note right there, Thorin,” he says. “We definitely ordered oak, and it was signed off as oak delivered. Bought it through one of the new traders: Osbert, his name is.”

“I managed to catch him at the gate,” says Johild. “He’s in the tanty downstairs if you want to speak to him. He says he was told it was oak, to his face.”

“And I put in the order myself in Dale,” adds Bombur. “This Osbert wasn’t the cheapest but he was the quickest. Bold as brass though hanging around if he’d cheated us on purpose, like.”

Thorin exhales heavily and turns to Bilbo. “Would a merchant know the impact of using oak instead of beech?”

Bilbo considers it. “Only if he’s a proper wood merchant, but aren’t these traders just Lake-town folk, who’ve bought carts with their gold and decided to set themselves up as merchants? The wood cutters should know though. Mind you, living in Esgaroth, the lot of them would probably know the effect of water on wood.”

“So Bard would know,” Thorin says, voice taking on a dangerous edge.

“But they wouldn’t have known the wood was for the water system,” Bilbo pointed out. “If Bombur didn’t tell them.”

Bombur shakes his head. “I did not. They might have thought it was for fire wood for all they knew.”

“Or construction. Beech would work all right for that as long as it’s kept dry. It would be a reasonable assumption that it’s not going to get wet under a mountain,” Bilbo muses. “So we can probably rule out deliberate sabotage.”

“Which leaves the wood cutters deceiving the merchant,” Thorin rumbles. “Or in an understanding with him.” His expression darkens like the sky before a storm. “Those thieving scoundrels think they can cheat us?” he grinds out, a low, ominous roll of thunder. The requisition order crumples in his hand. His jaw is clenched and Bilbo slips his fingers into his waistcoat pocket by force of nervous habit.

Bombur says something in Khuzdul that Bilbo doesn’t catch, but it sounds about the same as the words Johild had used earlier.

“Right thieving bastards,” Johild says. She squares her jaw. “Don’t you worry, your Majesty,” she says and grins viciously. “I’ll send the lads down to Esgaroth, we’ll get this sorted.”

Bilbo has a moment of horror at the diplomatic nightmare about to befall the delicate treaty with Dale. He clears his throat. “Thorin.”

Thorin’s lips twist for a moment into a vindictive curl, but then he sees Bilbo’s tense expression and exhales through his nose. “No, leave it with me,” he says. "Do nothing yet. Let me think on this.”

Bombur and Johild nod and take their leave.

Thorin exhales sharply once more and then turns and paces across the room to the fireplace, and leans his arm on the mantelpiece.  Bilbo winces at the tension radiating from him.

“Even now,” he says, his voice all the more terrible for how quietly he speaks. “Even with all the wealth of Erebor, with an army at my back, with this crown on my head, even now they treat us as no better than beggars.”

Bilbo stings for Thorin, that someone might purposefully do him such an injustice. “Thorin…” 

Thorin shakes his head, holding up his hand. “A moment, please, Bilbo.”

He paces away, standing with his back to Bilbo, for several long breaths, then turns and sinks down onto the ornate antique lounge chair. He rubs his hands over his face and then looks up at Bilbo.

“These wretches cannot be allowed to think they may cheat the dwarves of Erebor and get away with it.” He snorts. “I would string that merchant up by his jewels if I thought it would help. But it could be the woodcutters, as you say – but then perhaps the Bowman himself is behind this, seeking to undermine us and make mischief. Do I place this in his hands, or do we mete out punishment ourselves?” He leans back against the worn, padded velvet and shuts his eyes. “If we run to Bard, we will show we cannot protect our own interests. If we punish the scoundrels ourselves, will Dale think we are interfering with their sovereignty?”

It is Bilbo’s turn to sigh and he takes a seat next to Thorin.  He’s not sure what the answer is either. He knows if they were in the Shire, he’d go down to the merchant who’d sold him the wrong wood and very politely accuse him of deliberately cheating him, and then he’d haggle for a good half hour until the fellow had agreed to replace the wood and given his money back. He isn’t sure how it works with borders and treaties and potential diplomacy disasters. 

“And soon every dwarf in Erebor will know we were swindled,” Thorin continues, talking to the vaulted ceiling. “And I must act strongly to prove I am worthy of my crown.”

Bilbo feels very small and useless.  He wants to help desperately.

“I could go,” he suggests. “To Esgaroth, to buy the oak for you.”

 

* * *

 

At Bilbo’s words, Thorin's blood runs cold. The thought of Bilbo leaving the Mountain sends a sharp stab through his core. He is torn, caught between one fear and another –– of losing Bilbo and of his own overwhelming reaction. 

“I want to help, Thorin,” Bilbo says gently. “It seems to me that the priority is sourcing some actual oak – and I can do that, and I know the going price for good timber too, in the West at any rate. I can find out what happened with the first load, while I’m there. I’ll let it be known that the King of Erebor was not fooled and is taking his business elsewhere. I might even be able to get you a refund.”

Thorin looks down at his Hobbit who quirks a crooked, rueful smile. His expression is open and curiously sweet to Thorin’s eye. He knows Bilbo is right. If anyone could navigate the treacherous landscape of Man-Dwarf diplomacy, his Hobbit could.

Yet... yet... He knows he need not fear for Bilbo’s safety, and in the latter part of their quest had learned to trust in his quickness, his cleverness, and had delighted in having such a quick-witted companion at his side. After all, was it not Bilbo who rescued him from Elves, from spiders, from Azog there under the burning pines? Had he not trusted Bilbo time and again to succeed where he had failed? Recognised and admired his courage and cleverness? Yet now the risk of Bilbo coming to harm is almost one he cannot take.

“You will take guards,” he says firmly, his heart thudding even at this tacit agreement.

“Of course, I wouldn’t consider anything less.”

“Speak with Bombur first, find out all the details, and that merchant too.”

“I will.”

“And you will come home safely to me,” Thorin cannot help adding and hates himself for it nonetheless. “Is that understood?”

Bilbo gives a small, soft sigh and squeezes Thorin’s knee with his hand, bumping his shoulder against him. “Of course, you ridiculous dwarf. Of course I will.”

Thorin turns his face to Bilbo, burying his nose in Bilbo’s hair as he inhales a shuddering breath. He feels the possessive fear retreat, but he stays like that for a moment longer anyway.

Finally Bilbo draws back, dark, hazel eyes holding Thorin’s with a steady gaze. “I’ll be perfectly fine,” he says seriously. “I promise. Besides I don’t know about hanging anyone by their dangly bits, but I very much want a stern word with whoever thought it would be acceptable to pass off beech as oak to my _umùrad’akar_.”

Thorin chuckles, heart lightening, and nudges his nose against Bilbo’s.  “I almost pity them,” he says. “I have seen you enraged and I should not like to be the one on the receiving end.”

Bilbo grins at him, and Thorin feels his own smile widen in return.

“In that case, you’d best stop all this worrying and let me have my lunch,” Bilbo says.

 

**Author's Note:**

> AN: with enormous thanks to Squire for the idea of the beech vs oak scenario 
> 
>  
> 
> Khuzdul – courtesy of [Khuzdul4u](http://khuzdul4u.tumblr.com)  
> amrâlimê (“love-of-me”, coined by Salo in DoS)  
> ghivashel (”treasure of treasure”)  
> umùrad’akar - One (“other soul part”)  
> varudhghalut mahzâyungâlh – Pig fuckers


End file.
